


To Each His Own

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-07
Updated: 2010-08-07
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8708983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Everyone deals with grief differently. Some people cry, others hide their feelings with humor. Bobby notices that Dean demolishes cars.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** So this is my first Supernatural fic. I’ve only been watching since Christmas and haven’t seen anything beyond season 3, so hopefully I got everything right. I felt really bad for Dean at the beginning of season 2 and thought he’d probably take his anger out on other cars besides his beloved Impala. Any constructive criticism would be adored.

My name’s Bobby Singer, and I run Singer’s Salvage Yard. Yeah sure, there’s a fancy name for it, but it’s still a junkyard. I’ve been in the business most of my life. ‘Course, that’s not my only job. And no, I don’t jump into a telephone booth and come out wearin’ spandex. I’m also a hunter. Yeah, I go after deer and turkey and all that shit sometimes, but I like bigger, more unusual game, too. The supernatural kind.

 

In the course of both of my jobs I’ve run across the extraordinary people known as the Winchesters. I met John first then his two sons, Sam and Dean. I watched the boys grow up for a few years while John an’ I hunted. Then we had a fallin’ out. Thing about hunters is how stubborn they are. Have ‘ta be in our line of work. So I didn’t see Sam and Dean again until they were both grown and huntin’ on their own.

 

Not much had changed for the boys. Their daddy still kept ‘em in the dark and treated ‘em like his little soldiers, expectin’ ‘em to follow all his orders. They were both a little darker. All the hunting and misery had rubbed off on ‘em, y’see. Then their daddy upped and died. Probably sold himself to save his sons. Typical John Winchester. Didn’t even think what’d do to his boys.

 

Sam was dealing with it pretty well. Yeah, he was cut up about it and he cried ‘n’ moped a bit. But he got through it. It was Dean who was having a hard time adjusting. He was too much like his daddy. Just kept it all bottled up inside ‘cause he didn’t quite know how to deal with it and thought everything was all his fault. And he couldn’t let Sammy see. ‘Course, Sam could deal with it better than Dean, but Dean didn’t see that. He was still protecting his little brother.

 

It’d been about five weeks since John Winchester died of a “heart attack” and just about a month since the boys had set up camp at my place while they got themselves back together. Sam spent most of his time burying himself in his dad’s things, looking for clues about the demon that John ha been obsessed with. Dean was focused on restoring his prized ’67 Chevy Impala. John had loved that car and so did his son. I let ‘em both go, giving ‘em their space and all. Then I noticed something.

 

I was just showing a customer an Oldsmobile that was supposed to be in near working order, except for no tires, smashed windows and broken lights. Except when we got there, it looked like the poor car had gotten in a pile up with a semi. All the doors were bashed in, there was a hole in the trunk, and the hood was bent to hell and back. Now I know my stock, and this car hadn’t been like this when it came in nearly two months back. So I quickly directed the poor guy to another Olds and looked around for Dean.

 

Sure ‘nough, he was ‘bout a hun’erd yards away, cranking away under his car and singing at the top of his lungs to whatever he calls music. The first thing kid’d fixed was the radio and tape deck. I had to keep up appearances else I’d a been right over there in his face, but I knew Dean wasn’t going anywhere, so I let it go.

 

Later that evening, I took out a burger and beer to Dean as an excuse. I kept a sharp eye out as I walked and what I saw wasn’t a surprise. All the cars within two hundred yards of Dean looked terrible. Some had come in that way, others had been stripped over the years, but most of ‘em were in good condition. Were being the operative word there. Ya didn’t have t’be a hunter to know something was up.

 

“Dean! Grub,” I called.

 

Dean was under the hood now with a trouble light behind him, putting him in silhouette. Even though I’d given him plenty of warning, twenty-five feet at least, he still banged his head and cussed up a storm. I stifled a chuckle as I passed the food over to him.

 

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a man, Bobby,” Dean complained, already unwrapping the greasy fast food as he leaned against a newly replaced driver’s door. “It’s bad for my health.”

 

I chuckled again and shook my head. “Son, me scaring you is the least ya have to worry about.”

 

He smirked and toasted me with his beer before taking a healthy swallow. When he seemed content to tear the burger apart like a starving wolf, I realized it’d be now or never. Kid wouldn’t talk about it on his own. So I went over and lounged beside him, propping my butt on the rear door.

 

“Speakin’ of scaring folks, I had a little surprise today.”

 

“Yeah, whab’s zat?” he asked through a mouthful.

 

“Something’s been tearing up my cars.” I cleared my throat and looked at Dean out of the corner of my eye. He’d gone very still, with a half-chewed bite of burger still in his mouth. After a moment, he recovered, chewing and swallowing his food with exaggerated care. Another big swallow of beer nearly finished the bottle and gave him courage.

 

“You don’t think it’s just kids? I mean, you don’t have a guard dog right now,” he said casually.

 

“Naw, kids know better’n to mess with me. And besides, it’s real centralized. Makes me think it’s someone else.” I watched Dean set aside the food, hunger forgotten. I could practically see the gears in his head spinning. If he were a car, I’d say he needed an oil change a few thousand miles ago.

 

“Look, Bobby, I can explain,” Dean began.

 

“You don’t have to explain,” I muttered, “Just stop beatin’ up on good merchandise.”

 

His jaw hardened as he nodded. Dean never liked getting caught doing something, but the boy hardly ever misbehaved so it was rare for him. I saw how his eyes glittered with frustration and maybe a hint of tears.

 

Suddenly, Sam’s voice rang out across the darkening yard. “Dean? Bobby?”

 

We could hear quiet, crunching steps coming our way. I had to do something. Fast.

 

“Look,” I said hurriedly, “Way back in the southeast corner is a bunch of old junkers. They’re no good for parts anymore ‘cause I’ve already stripped ‘em. Most are too rusted anyhow. You need to do anymore banging, just go back there, OK?”

 

“Bobby -” The look in Dean’s eyes just about broke my heart for him, but he didn’t need that right now. So I just clapped him on the back and nodded at his food.

 

I asked gently, “You wanna finish that up and then come inside?”

 

Dean looked down and nodded jerkily. I helpfully stared past him as he swiped at his eyes. Then he cleared his throat and muttered, “Yeah, be right there.”

 

I nodded and started back, planning to cut Sam off at the pass.

 

“Bobby?” Dean’s hesitant question made me turn back to him. I couldn’t see much in the deepening gloom but I ignored the sparkle in his eyes and on his cheeks anyway. “Don’t tell Sam?”

 

“About what?” I asked, holding my hands out in a “I got nothin’” gesture.

 

I heard him give a watery chuckle then a quiet, “OK, Thanks”

 

I corralled Sam two rows over from Dean’s workspace and hustled him back to the house with something about Dean being obsessed. I don’t think he quite bought it, but he didn’t go lookin’ fer his brother. Dean stayed out real late that night and didn’t come in ‘til near about 11. When Sam glanced up from watching the local news, I peered unobtrusively up from the book I’d been reading.

 

Dean looked as tired and greasy as he had every other night, but I’m pretty sure I saw streaks of rust on his arms and jeans. He quickly distracted us by saying something that got Sam riled up, and anything I might have said was lost in Sam’s loud complaints and Dean’s laughter.

 

The Winchester boys were healing, each in his own way. And I knew they’d be leavin’ soon, which was good. Those boys needed to move on and get back out there. I didn’t like the way things were shaping up - though I didn’t know how right I was at the time - but it was nice to seem ‘em laughin’ again. I have a bit of a soft spot for those boys, ‘specially Dean.


End file.
